


repression

by The_Resurrection_3D



Series: YYY fics [4]
Category: Yin Yang Yo!
Genre: Implied/Referenced Torture, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 07:45:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13759500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Resurrection_3D/pseuds/The_Resurrection_3D
Summary: Why am I afraid? I ask myself that so often, but I can’t remember the answer.





	repression

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sanatorium](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/359013) by Apples of Avalon. 



> This is a slight rewrite of the end of Gaby's fic "Sanatorium," which is itself a darker take on the episode 'Upstanding Yuck.' This also serves as a bit of an "in-universe" explanation for the name Oliver. The song in question is "Oliver's Army" by Elvis Costello, and the boy with curly hair is Terry Otter from the episode "Camp Magic Pants." This is a slight rewrite of the story I posted early last year. 
> 
> The real origin of the name Oliver (yeah, that was me, although I change names so often I don't blame anyone for forgetting) is that an AMV editor on Youtube made a YYY trailer parody of "The House Bunny" and picked Good!Yuck to play the character Oliver from the film. Yeah, pretty anticlimactic. But there ya go. 
> 
> Enjoy!

re·pres·sion 

/rəˈpreSH(ə)n/ 

 _the action of subduing someone or something by force_  

* * *

 

“Excited, are we?” it asks. A hooded figure with no face and hands the color of frostbite. Quill in one, book open across the other. 

They’re touching me. Three, four, five behind me, touching me, passing by to comb their fingers through my hair, palm a wrinkle out of my shirt 

(birthing maggots under my skin). 

Their fingers are clearly bone - the sinew and joints worn, yet still visible – but the texture's closer to flesh. Cold, dead flesh, but flesh nonetheless.  

“Yes sir!” I chirp, feeling my sharp teeth bite a sliver off each side of my tongue. Don’t cry out, don’t cringe.  

Knuckles are grazing by my ear. 

 Everything is okay.  

They’ve told me it’s common for modern men to be touch-averse, but that doesn’t mean it’s natural or right.  We're made to be touched, to touch each other, and most of the evil of the world begins when one is denied that kind of love.  

That's what they called it: 'love.' I think they've said they love me several times before.  

Every time they say it, though, it feels as though my essence is being drained right out of my chest. Like someone stuck a facet into my heart and turned it on. I'm not really sure why, and I'm not even sure if it's their fault.  

A pair of hands pushes me closer to the desk, causing me to nearly trip over my own feet. I can’t see the monks around me smile, but I’m sure they all are – laughing with me or at me, that I can't tell. 

 “How many days did you stay with us?” the one behind the desk asks.  

I breathe out a little chuckle. Scratch the back of my neck, trying to smooth my hackles down. The hand by my ear moves down, ghosting along my arm. 

 _(if_ _you_ _don’t stop_ **_fucking_ ** _touching me -)_  

“Ah, it’s hard to say. Three, four months maybe?” 

Sheepish laughter around me, more transient hands. The paper doors at the end of the hall slide open, and I see two monks carry in an unconscious man on a gurney, the bone of one leg jutting out his skin, blood dried black and brown. But they move quickly, vanishing behind a corner.  

I turn my gaze back to the monk before me and add, “Best vacation I’ve ever had!” 

More laughter.  

“Four months, and here you stand now as a new man, purified of your harmful desires. Sometimes, when the hero of myth is born anew, he takes on also a new name.”  

It turns the book around towards me. “Do you desire to change yours? You need not be shackled to the sins of your past self, even as you seek to heal them." 

The hands slide off me  

(but the maggots crawl still, eating me alive). 

 The words drop a gnawing, hot snake of dread into my stomach, though I can’t explain why. Why am I afraid?  

I ask myself that so often, but I can’t remember the answer.  

My heart's starting to beat my eardrums, and as I rub my hand over one of my eyes, all I really manage to do is rub sweat over my face.  

Great.  

I wipe my face off with my sleeve and try to still myself with a long, deep breath.  _Stop overreacting._   

Just move. Take the book, don't let your arm give under the weight - good, and then the quill, chirp another “Yes sir.” 

The book doesn't look more a few hundred pages, yet it must weigh at least ten pounds. Probably ten times my age, too, with leaf-crackling paper and hard, wrinkly leather. The writing's a simple list of names, ages, and intervals, a dozen or so to each page.  

Sometimes I see a name twice. Sometimes a tiny X next to their checkout date. 

They’re all watching me; They never show their eyes, but I can feel them branding my skin.  

( - something's writhing in my bones, _itchingitchingitching,_ an infection I need to tear out -) 

Come on, _think_. You need a new name. They're waiting. 

Yet now I can’t help but wonder what that injured guy’s name was (a curiosity I vaguely know I’ve never felt before). From that brief glance, I could see he had the remnants of armor, a rusted shoulder plate and steel-toed boots, but otherwise his clothes were perfectly normal, kinda like the clean gi I’m wearing now. I guess a warzone doesn’t have a dress code.   

I wonder if, when he wakes up, he'll be grateful to be here, or if he'll deny his food until they "let him go," like they tell me I did. If he'll need the feeding tube, like they tell me I did. If the only thing that will run through his mind -- even when he's searching night after sleepless night for something  _more,_  kicking and clawing his way down towards the ocean floor of his memory -- is just the simple thought:  _God,_ _I'd just rather be anywhere else._

My face suddenly lights up; I can tell, because the monks around me seem taken aback as I excitedly scribble my new name onto the page in big, looping letters.  

Call it asinine, but it’s the clearest memory I have right now, certainly better than the swirls of pink and blue that haunt my sleep and leave my skin hot when I awake. A song with an upbeat, catchy piano, and a faint memory of a boy with curly brown hair. Who is he? 

 _And I would rather be anywhere else_  

 _Than here today_ _...._  

 And I couldn't agree more, though I can't remember all the words, only the chorus and the name.   

 _And I would rather be anywhere else,_  

 _T_ _han here today..._  

Was the song playing then, or were those the last words the curly-haired boy said to me? It doesn’t matter. I’m going to find them all, eventually.  

I look again at my new name; I've nearly ripped a hole into the page.  

 _Oliver._  

Oliver.  

I like it.  

The monk takes the book back, reading my new name aloud. A soft name, yes, but there’s something that feels crisp and fresh about it as it rolls off that invisible tongue, even as he says, “Oliver? An odd choice, but well-conceived." 

"Oliver," a monk to my right interjects, "the scheming duke who was willing to repent and live as a shepherd for his love. Very well-conceived." No idea what he's talking about, but I smile wider as the others nod their approval.  

The other monk nods, more slowly this time. Its voice gets deeper, softer as it adds, "I'm sure you will do right by it." 

“I hope so! I have so many people I have to apologize to after all the horrible things I did! I can’t start fresh with all those mistakes left un-atoned for, can I?”  

“You are absolutely right, Oliver; you must atone for your misdeeds. We hope that you are able to stay on the righteous path, or you may find yourself back under our care.” 

The room is so cold my bones ache.  

“Of course not! This time I’ll set things right, I promise!” I smile but it’s something separate from my body, a tarp over something smashed open and rotting.  

I instinctively cower as the monk raises its hand, eyes darting down to my feet, to the tiles that are white as  _(bones,_ my _bones, broken in two)_  teeth. Even as it limply pets my head, the way you would a bothersome dog to appease it, the gesture feels  _wrong_ , like something that’s making the uncanny valley its summer home.  

“Then you are free to go, Oliver. We wish you good luck in your journey for redemption, and we hope that you will always carry our lessons in your heart. It would be a great shame if you were to forget your time here.” 

Don't lose sleep over it.  

When I finally pass through the door of the International House of Peaceful Readjustment, I feel relief like a tomb close over my head. I look back and see the monks waving at me with those fleshy, frozen bones and – 

I turned 14 in there, didn’t I?  

A pain opens up in my chest that I can’t quantify.  

I try to remember something, anything else from before I  _(_ _was dragged beaten unconscious)_  set foot into that place.  

But there are only those pink and blue swirls and their mocking laughter, and that song from the boy with curly hair.  

It doesn’t matter. I am Oliver now. I have a new life ahead of me.  

I turn away from the dojo and look towards the horizon, where the sun is painting the sky purple and red in breathtaking strokes. My whole body is a wound, worms crawling out of my eyes, and I want–  

I… 

I look behind me, but the dojo is gone. Nothing here on this hill except me, the grass between my fingers and the vomit threatening to break past my crazy smile.  

No matter what happens to me afterwards, I know I’ll never feel the same again. 


End file.
